Men Who Walk Alone Read online

  MEN WHO WALK ALONE

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by TJ Martinell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  FIRST EDITION

  Published in Digital and Physical Format in the United States of America.

  Men Who Walk Alone

  By TJ Martinell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part I The Other Side of the Coin

  Part II Looking Through The Mirror

  Part III An End To A Means

  Part IV The Wind that Shook the Barley

  Part V The Death of a Legend

  About the Author

  Part I

  The Other Side of the Coin

  March 1934. Molly Shea hurried home after buying her groceries from the local store. The blackness of the foggy night pervaded over her as she nervously strolled down Cabot Street to her apartment. She held her bag in front of her, trying to not show the fear that she held deep inside. It was impossible.

  She shouldn’t have been out this late. It couldn’t be helped. Her shift at the restaurant where she washed dishes had been extended at the last minute. She was fortunate enough to have the job. She couldn’t complain. But then after work, she had to get some food to eat, her cupboards empty at home, even though knowing the later she stayed out, the more likely she would be attacked.

  Every day, there was a body found, especially “Shingleville” where she lived. Crime was as common as the dirt on the ground.

  But the night was even worse.

  To her surprise, the journey went surprisingly well despite the wailing and cries echoing from far away. Her optimism grew as she saw the outline of her tenement complex only a block away, a smiling forming with anticipated relief.

  As Molly went past the entrance to a backstreet alley, her silhouette formed against the wall of the nearest building. Another shadowy outline joined hers.

  Suddenly, two arms appeared from the alley. They grabbed her around the face, covered her mouth before she could cry out for help. She cried, dropped her groceries as she fought to stay in the street. Her strength was rapidly depleted. The powerful arms pulled her around the corner without much difficulty. Blind to her attacker, she clawed for anything that could help her, her fingernails scratching against useless pebbles.

  The murky figure threw Molly against the hard brick exterior of the building to the left. The violent blow knocked her to the ground. Struggling to stand, she looked up at her attacker.

  A dark figure stood loftily above her, cackling fiendishly as he pulled out a trail of rope. He tightened it as he approached her. A taut smile curved his bright lips.

  Molly screamed out for help. It echoed down the alleyway, dying with a whimper. The man growled, hitting her in the face to silence her. He then kicked her to the ground with his foot. While she coughed in pain, he walked behind her, laughing quietly to himself, enjoying every second of his conquest. He wrapped the rope around her neck. He yanked it back with one hand, using the other to hold her hands behind her back.

  She was weary, tired, feeble. It was too easy for him.

  The woman struggled to breathe, feebly fighting back, but the rope was too tight against her throat. She lost her breath; her vision became hazy. As she began to lose consciousness, she fully realized that he was going to kill her.

  It was a prewritten tragedy. She was going to be another nameless corpse to be added to the ever-growing list of murder victims who were always found in a dumpster somewhere in the city or at the bottom of the river. Her family would mourn her, but it would end there. A small obituary, if that. An “official” investigation that would amount to a quick inspection of the crime scene by an indifferent officer. The police would never find him. She was worthless, unimportant, one of the forgotten thousands.

  She began to cry with what little strength she had left. Pitiful tears rolled down her face as she convulsed. She prayed that it would be over soon, that he would make it quick. It was all she had left to hope for.

  Back and forth he went, his laugh increasing with each fierce pull. Sensing the moment of highest satisfaction imminent, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, ready to kill. He set it under her chin, pressing it against her throat. He envisioned it, euphoric at the prospect of blood gushing down her chest, her wide eyes as she watched herself bleed to death.

  He breathed in, prepared for it.

  A strange noise blew through the conical alley. It was a like whispering voice, sending a chill up their spine. The woman felt cold, shivered in place.

  The would-be killer jumped to his feet in outrage, expecting a policeman or some fool who didn’t know when to mind his own business. He glanced around frantically, looking for a hidden stranger lurking in the dimly lit corners.

  There was no one.

  Still frightened, he continued searching, waiting for a person to be so bold as to try to attack him. Molly stood still the whole time, weeping softly as she tried to get air down her bruised throat, gently touching the skin where his sharp blade had been pressing against only a moment ago.

  The man cried out for whoever it was to appear, an act of anxious instability on his part. How dare they make him wait!

  There was no reply, except for a gentle gust of wind. It howled softly, slightly brushing the newly forming leaves of the oak trees in the street.

  Then the man looked behind him. He saw someone lurking in the shadows. A tall, imposing silhouette. Eyes like pits of rage.

  A murky arm rose.

  A gun muzzle flashed.

  And then he was dead.

  Beverly Evening Times, March 5, 1934

  WOMAN ATTACKED BY CONVICTED KILLER, RESCUED BY MYSTERIOUS SAVIOR

  Beverly Evening Times, March 10, 1934

  HARDENED CRIMINAL SHOT DEAD IN ALLEYWAY: POLICE BAFFLED BY KILLER’S DISAPPEARING ACT

  Shingleville News, March 15, 1934

  ‘THE VIGILANTE’ STRIKES AGAIN! ONE-MAN CRUSADE AGAINST CRIME BEGINS!

  ANOTHER MISCREANT FINDS HIS GRUESOME WAY ONTO LIST OF VICTIMS

  Italiano Americano, March 20, 1934

  LOCAL NEIGHBORHOODS CLAIM ‘VIGILANTE’ AS FOLK HERO

  THE VIGILANTE’S EXISTENCE: MYTH OR FACT?

  McKinney’s Press, March 25, 1934

  ‘THE VIGILANTE’ AN ‘EMBARRASSMENT’ TO POLICE FORCE?

  IRISH COMMUNITIES SEE ROGUE AS PATRON SAINT

  Saturday Morning Citizen, March 31, 1934

  ‘VIGILANTE’ KILLING SPREE REACHES FEVER PITCH!

  FIVE SUSPECTED MOBSTERS KILLED IN ONE NIGHT!

  Saturday Morning Citizen, April 2, 1934

  VIGILANTISM EXPOSES CORRUPTION OF CITY, SYMBOL OF INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS

  ***

  I stood in the briefing room of the police station, my arms folded across my chest with impatience. My eyes were barely opened; I had just been called in to the station earlier that morning, still tired from my double shift.

  I wasn’t too surprise as to the reason, even though it hadn’t been officially announced yet. It was standard. Nothing important ever stayed secret here for long.

  Jack Hardy, my police captain, had wanted to speak to all the members of the homicide bureau from our precinct station.

  Now.

  That meant one thing. The bigwigs had arrived.

 
A dozen and a half other detectives and policemen joined me in the room. No one talked. They sat uneasily, anxious to hear what “Captain” Hardy wanted to tell them.

  Jaded, I already knew what he what would be discussed. I didn’t need to be a detective to know what had caused all the commotion in the department lately.

  For the past month, a vigilante had operated in our city, indiscriminately killed criminals, did it on a near-daily basis. He had set off a city-wide controversy, while in the process made himself a sensation in the press; the instigator-like publishers ran large headlines about him with each new killing, added an implied criticism: Police incompetency.

  We hadn’t found a suspect, had hardly a clue to go off. Commissioner Elroy and Chief of Police Barker were naturally in an uproar.

  But Hardy had kept the whole case shut tight, hadn’t allowed any information he had to leak out. I doubted there was much to go on, anyway.

  I had found that out, mostly by eavesdropping, that Hardy was going to put us all on the case. After a month, it seemed to be about time to actually do something.

  I sighed as I tugged at my black leather jacket. Even motionless, I could feel the oily sensation of my dark red hair as it spilled down my face. I swept it back up. It annoyed me, but not enough to see a barber. Too busy.

  I wore a very cynical look, aided by my wrinkled clothes, a relaxed posture that hinted at the pessimism that had gradually crept into me.

  Irritated, I scratched the rough surface of my face with my hand. It felt like a porcupine’s back. I hadn’t shaved for at least two days, a thick layer of reddish brown formed into a beard.

  Hardy finally entered the room, Elroy and Barker behind him.

  Every officer stood up from his chair, except for myself; I already had stood up. I was off to the side by myself, a subtle act of individuality, self-segregation from the others.

  They didn’t take it badly. They didn’t want much to do with me; I didn’t want much to do with them. It was an easy concept they had all accepted.

  Hardy’s gaze swept across the room like the conflagration of a flamethrower. He eyed each of us, as if he waited for us to say something. After no one did, he walked over to a desk against the end of the room, faced their chairs, then sat down. The rest of the us followed his lead.

  Groggy, Hardy took a sip of coffee from the mug that was on the desk, put it down slowly. He was a big burly man; a small trimmed beard, large face, rough, hefty hands. Before he had joined the Force, he had been a champion fighter for the city’s underground boxing league, had never lost a match, ever. One didn’t ask why once they got a good look at him.

  Commissioner Peter Elroy, on the other hand, was the antithesis of Hardy in every sense, from his attire to his physicality. His smaller, slender frame contrasted blatantly with Hardy’s build. He also had a quiet air about him as he gazed at Hardy.

  Finally, Hardy spoke. His voice was raspy, deep, carried a tone frustration.

  “As ya all know, the downtown precincts have the highest crime rate in the entire city. The place is a damn mess. Every night, we have to respond to something and it ain’t ever pretty.”

  He picked up one of the folders that were on his desk.

  “Then this shit happens.”

  He held up a prison photo of a young man with a thick moustache. In it, he held his prison number with a sense of pride, achievement.

  “It all started with this guy,” he continued. “Logan Carter. This wise guy gets off on parole after doin’ five years for murder and decides to celebrate his newly found freedom by tryin’ to bump off a dame walkin’ home one night. Instead, he ends up hitching a ride on the old railroad to the life hereafter with a freakin’ bullet in his chest.”

  I grinned discreetly, remembered the interview with the would-be victim, Molly Shea. The poor girl hadn’t had much to say, scared half to death herself by the encounter. I didn’t get a single statement out of her. Other cops questioned her story, wondered if she lied.

  I had believed her. I had initially assumed that the girl’s rescuer had simply been a Good Samaritan with the rare courage to help another out in need. But I figured it was an act that wasn’t to be repeated.

  No such luck.

  Week after week after week, it was the same scenario. The newspapers kept a daily tracker of his unfortunate “victims.”

  The tally was eight, and counting.

  The next day it would be nine. Or more. Everyone knew it.

  “Then,” Hardy continued, “after that, the precincts’ crime rate drops like a brick. Suddenly, the lowlifes start turnin’ up dead all over the place; no originality, either, just stickin’ bullets in their head. Or chest, it don’t matter. All we know is that all these killin's been by the same bastard with the same gun. All the ballistics on the killing slugs matched. Our friend is a bit queer, it seems. He likes to use a Webley-Fosbery.”

  I frowned. It was an atypical gun to use. They had stopped production in 1915, almost twenty years ago. Not exactly the weapon of choice to bump someone off.

  “The worst of it is,” Hardy further elaborated, “beside the gun, we know next to nothin’ about this son of a bitch. We got zilch, what he looks like, what he wears, not a thing. Forensics ain’t found a single trace of blood on his victims – other than theirs. No blood, no fingerprints, no nothin’. And no witnesses have come forward, either. The people he saves won’t say what he looks like, afraid they gonna get a little visit. Either that, or they are tellin’ the truth when they say they never saw him. All I know is he ain’t no rat from the sewers.”

  He then held up a small piece of paper, seethed. “We just got this, a statistics report on crime in this freakin’ lousy town. Accordin’ to it, the crime rate in the downtown area has been cut in half like a deck of cards.”

  Everyone looked at Elroy; he maintained his taciturn demeanor. Barker, a shorter, stouter seemed cranky as he eyed Hardy.

  The file still in hand, Hardy threw it onto the desk with a yell of frustration. “And of course, some jackass in this department just had to give those bastards in the press a copy of the report.”

  I fumed at first, but then chuckled to myself, the irony thick as beef stew. Hardy had a list of friendly journalists he loved to pass tips along to; they were all but posted on his office wall.

  Elroy appeared nonchalant, but underneath the cool surface I detected anger. Barker exhibited it much more vividly.

  What did they expect when they had Hardy for a police captain? It was the sort of thing he encouraged. In a way, he symbolized the average man in our department; vulgar, ignorant, easily bribed. While the presence of his two superiors might have rankled him, the true motive that drove him was plain to see: One his “associates” wasn’t ecstatic with him. It was obvious he had gotten his ass chewed out.

  That’s all he really cared about. He made sure the people who paid him were satisfied.

  I saw the Marzio crime syndicate written all over it.

  One of our braver, or dumber, officers raised his hand. Hardy pointed at him to speak.

  “So, what do you want us to do?” he asked cautiously.

  Finally, Elroy spoke in a quiet, calm voice that caused us to lean forward to hear him clearly.

  “This city will not tolerate vigilantism,” he said. “We enforce the law, not men who have no accountability. This is our duty, our responsibility, not his.”

  Hardy did him better. He got up to our chairs, stared down at us with a face as red as a tomato.

  “I want him dead. Period. This person, whoever he is, has had his fun. Time for him to pay up. That’s why y’all are here. I’m setting up a task force to nail this guy. Y’all are a part of it. I’m taking the whole bureau from this precinct to get it done.”

  He pointed at me with a fat finger. Every eye in the room turned on me like a bug in a jar.

  “Moore, ya gonna be the head detective in any crime scene he’s linked to from now on. Freddy’s not up to the task. His ass is out
of there!”

  I wouldn’t let Hardy have it so easy.

  “But, sir, I have dozens of cases that are piling up on my desk,” I protested.

  “I don’t care,” Hardy snapped back. “They’re not worth the smudge of ink on our typewriters. Assign them to your subordinates, or whatever it takes. I want you to find this guy.”

  I forced a smile. I’d find this vigilante, but not for Hardy, not for the department. I had had enough. I’d find out who this man was, keep it to myself. I knew there was more to this than what Hardy told me. There always was.

  It was the way things were. The department was full of men unworthy of trust, unworthy of their position but somehow getting both. Meanwhile, the ones like me who managed to keep their hands relatively clean got used like pawns in a giant game of chess. As a low-ranking officer I had been duped once, took down a group of nuts that had bumped off lowlifes near Green’s Hill after Hardy had ordered me to look into it. I had obeyed, thought at the time it was my duty. It had been a ruse; Hardy had been paid off by another gang to shut down their rivals.

  None of the suspects I had detained had survived long enough to be tried, gutted like fish while they had slept in their cells.

  But I wouldn’t fall for it this time.

  I wasn’t naive anymore. I would discover this vigilante before Hardy did, warn him to get the hell out of town.

  Whoever he was, he couldn’t possibly know what he had gotten himself into.

  ***

  After I signed off at the police station, I headed back to my home, only a few hundred feet north from the railroad tracks on Cabot Street. I didn’t own an automobile, so I had to walk to work every day. Some days the weather made it brutal, but I didn’t give it a thought. The odds, in some ways, were in my favor.